


It Was a Pleasure

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gregory Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was a Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-slash and pre-canon. Some bad language, reference to drug use, and an injured Sherlock. Cross-posted at Sherlockbbc and my LJ page. Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.

He hated the smell. He always hated the smell. He'd spent enough time in hospitals over the years. It was a part of the job that most people didn't really think about. Questioning victims, questioning doctors, retrieving evidence, waiting for word on injured comrades. They all meant hospital. Some of the staff in the A&E knew his face by now, and he theirs.

And he was fuckin' exhausted. The attacks had been going on for more than two weeks, and sleep had become a vanishing commodity. But the viciousness of the attacks had been steadily getting worse. Then the last one had been a 14 year old girl. He'd finally broken then and made the call. It had to end, and it had to end fast. There was no room for pride anymore. So he'd made the call and 30 minutes later the scarecrow and his coat had swooped in to review the files. Lestrade let him have use of his office and exited gracefully before the taller man threw him out. He knew by now that Sherlock needed quiet, needed space to think. So he sat outside in a creaky office chair in front of a deserted cubicle and watched the man do The Work.

He sipped a cup of coffee and tipped the chair back to rest for just a moment. Next thing he knew, he was jerked out of sleep by his office door being thrown open, blinds clattering against the glass.

"He's a caretaker. At the last victim's school. She was the intended target all along. The rest was just escalation. Let's go, Lestrade!"

"No, you stay the hell put!" he replied rising. "You've done your bit, now let me and mine do ours. I mean it, Sherlock."

"You must be joking. You can't honestly think you're going without me. You can't stop me."

"The hell I can't. I'll throw you in holding if I have to. Now you're just making me waste time." Greg went into his office to get his phone and call in his team. When he reentered the squad room Sherlock was gone.

"Goddamn it!"

_________________

They'd made it there in time, but just barely. Sherlock could navigate the city streets better than any GPS system. That coupled with his headstart meant he'd gotten to the school before they had, even with sirens blaring. It was after-hours and there shouldn't have been any children left on the premises, but precious minutes were wasted ensuring that fact, trying to make sure the building was evacuated of student and faculty. By the time he entered the building, the sounds of the skirmish led him right to Sherlock. To give the man credit, he was holding his own; which meant he was still conscious. The caretaker was a hulking great man who apparently kept a spanner in a loop on his uniform pants at all times. He'd put the tool to good use on Sherlock's body and face by the time Lestrade intervened. Thank God the man had sense enough to realize a spanner won't win in a gunfight. He was in cuffs and the medics were moving in before Gregory had engaged the safety on his weapon and reholstered it. He let his team step in to mop up and followed Sherlock's ambulance to A&E.

___________________

Of course, he'd needed surgery. _Internal bleeding, hopefully just the spleen. We'll let you know as soon as possible. _So Greg sat his weary body in the uncomfortable plastic seat and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to ignore the noise of the telly in the waiting area and the noise of trauma big and small unfolding around him. He was very close to nodding off again.__

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume."

Too tired to be startled, he just turned his head towards the voice and opened his eyes. Then closed them and reopened them. And decided he must've actually dozed off because he had to be dreaming.

The man looked like something out of a film. He had on a suit that probably cost a year of Greg's wages. His tie alone could've paid Greg's rent. And he was wearing a waistcoat. An honest to God waistcoat. If he hadn't been so tired, he would've laughed. Then he saw the umbrella...it was John bloody Steed. Nice dream then. The Avengers had been one of his favorites when he was young. He looked around, behind the man. No Emma Peel as far as he could see. Shame that. An Avengers dream wasn't really possible without that black catsuit...and Steed wasn't wearing his bowler. Fuck if he wasn't still awake.

Blinking out of his stupor, he rumbled,"Yeah, that 's me. Can I help you?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you are acquainted with my brother." It wasn't a question, but Greg answered anyway, rising to meet the man. He did have some manners.

"Yes. Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." And his offered hand was taken in a surprisingly firm grip. Some tired part of his brain noticing that the man had the softest hands he'd ever felt, softer than any woman's.

"I've been meaning to, ahhh, arrange an introduction for quite some time now. Unfortunately matters at ...work interfered with my intentions."

The resemblance wasn't really in the features, but Greg could see it anyhow. It was in the eyes, in the perusal, in the internal gears. Greg could measure people up with the best of them. A combination of innate skill and years of experience. This was a Sherlockian brain in a softer, more politic package. Sneaky, that. At least Sherlock had the decency to wear wolf's clothing. He could see that his own measure was being taken, feel the laser beam of deduction burning across his skin.

"The doctor said...."

"I've spoken with the doctor, thank you. I wanted to speak with you for a moment, in private if possible."

Greg glanced around wondering where in hell they'd find a private spot in this mess, when someone from hospital staff stepped over and ushered them into a private consultation room. Greg imagined this was the room used to give people some privacy when they were given really shitty news. The thought did not improve his mood.

"Please, sit. You look dead on your feet."

And since he pretty much was, he dropped into the nearest chair. He didn't have the energy for a pissing contest right now. Wasn't interested in playing dominance games with another Holmes. To his surprise, the man, (Mycroft, his brain provided, wondering if he deserved the name as much as Sherlock did his), sat down across from him. Enduring that gaze a few moments longer, Greg's impatience quickly got the better of him.

"I don't mean to be rude here, but what exactly can I do for you?"

A ghost of a smile. And Greg gazed back... harder.

"It's not about what you can do for me, Inspector. It's about what you have done to my brother." There was a tension in the shoulders that Greg could tell wasn't normally there, the grip on the ridiculous umbrella was knuckle-white. The man was gearing up for something, but Greg didn't know what.

"Look, I didn't do anything to your brother. If he had listened to me for one bleedin' second he wouldn't be in this mess."

"Oh, I'm sure. You misunderstand me. I didn't come here to lambaste you, Inspector. I came here to... thank you." Greg knew, just knew, those words didn't leave that mouth often. He'd been watching that mouth, saw the colorless, not-too-thin lips form the words with difficulty.

"Uhh...well, then." Greg cleared his throat to give himself a moment to think of a better response. "You're welcome?" It was slightly better than "Huh?"

He saw a bit of the tension ease out of the shoulders, noticed the fingers release their grip on the umbrella, tap a bit on the handle. Apparently the worst of this was over. Only...

"What exactly are you thanking me for again?"

"Come now, Detective. You know what."

He was too tired for this. "How about you just humor me then."

And that earned him another smile, this one a bit more corporeal. This one reaching the eyes a bit. Greg found himself unable to decide whether to focus on the mouth or the eyes.

"I'm thanking you for saving his life. He may not put much value on it, but I assure you that I do."

Greg saw the truth to those words, recognized a universal fierceness that dwelt in older brothers.

"I didn't exactly save his life. I let him slip out of my damn squad room knowing how slippery he is. And the medics did most of the actual saving part."

"I wasn't talking about today, precisely."

"No?"

"No. Well, that isn't quite true. Today is indeed part of it, but I was referring to the larger aspect of your allowing him to consult with you on some of your cases."

"Oh, that. Well, he's brilliant at it." A pause. "If you tell him that I'll have to kill you."

"Yes, yes. I know he is. I also know that his brilliance can often be overshadowed by some of his less... stellar qualities. " The smile again, and this time Greg stayed on the eyes.

"You mean he's a giant pain in the arse." He felt his own lips turning up, knew there was an answering glint in his own eyes.

"Precisely. But this...you, I think, have given him something. Have done something for him. Something that I...I never could...well, not to sound too cliched, I think you've given him a purpose. Well, to be honest, I think you've given him an obsession, but at least it's one that can be channeled into healthy avenues. I'll settle for that right now. So, Detective, you have my thanks...with a measured dose of pity, of course. I have no illusions about my brother." Greg chose the lips this time.

"No, I reckon not." More seriously, "He really is good, you know. I don't know how long this whole thing would've rocked on without his help...without him."

"I'm sure he is. I'm quite sure he is. He's good at most everything he sets his mind to. It's the setting that's the difficult part. He gets bored, you see. He...well he drifts. Has drifted. For some time. I think...I hope I am perhaps seeing an end to that...seeing this work as an end to that."

"You were worried about him?" Greg asked, never ignorant of Sherlock's exaggerated paleness, thinness. The copper in him had noticed the marks on the arms, remembered the times Sherlock had just disappeared for days on end, remembered the near mania the man sometimes couldn't control when they'd first met. He knew what that all meant, had made it clear to Sherlock that work would only come to him when clean.

"Oh, I'm still worried about him. I don't think that will change. But I think I can downgrade my surveillance, so to speak." Not meeting Gregory's eyes this time, but the smile still there.

They sat there a few moments. The elder Holmes staring at Gregory's worn shoes, tapping out a faint rhythm on his umbrella, features softening into something Greg couldn't define...yet. Greg took advantage of the averted gaze to really look at the man. Get his fill of him.

God knew that the Holmes brother back in surgery was one of the most fascinating men Gregory Lestrade had ever met. Infuriating, childish, self-centered...but undeniably fascinating. The man before him had none of the flash of his brother. He was calm, polite, almost a caricature of the veddy, veddy British. He probably had a valet, and a driver, and a butler named Jemison. But underneath that veneer, he was certain there was more. Well hidden, but apparent to Greg's detective-sharp eyes. And he was fascinated by this man, too. A bit like staring into the flames of a fire. Sherlock might have all the flickering light of that fire, but something was beginning to make Greg think that this one, Mycroft, might have all the heat.

The moment was broken by a knock at the door. The doctor entered to tell them that Sherlock had come through the surgery fine. Splenectomy that he should recover from quickly enough, the rest just bumps and bruises that time would repair. Mycroft rose and stepped out to follow the doctor back to see Sherlock, Greg following out into the corridor that led to the exit in the opposite direction.

"Detective?"

He stopped and turned. Tried not to smile at that ridiculous umbrella.

"Yeah?"

"It was a pleasure to meet you. Truly a pleasure."

"Yeah, you too. Maybe next time it'll be under better circumstances."

This earned him a slow blink, a smile that was more a wrinkling of the nose than anything else.

"Yes. Until next time." He turned to follow the doctor through the doors.

Gregory Lestrade trudged toward the exit. Stepped out into the night and headed for home. Decided it was cold enough to build a fire at home to chase the chill away. He fell asleep in his chair that night, lulled by the warmth of that fire, and dreamed dreams of umbrellas and waistcoats...and not-too-thin lips.


End file.
